


all our lives

by douchechill



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen, Incest, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:43:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/douchechill/pseuds/douchechill
Summary: Gob was worried. But then, being worried about your little brother after his wife died--that was normal, wasn’t it?





	all our lives

**Author's Note:**

> Probably kind of OOC. Banged this out in an hour without really thinking, too, so there're probably some errors.
> 
> It's 3 a.m. and I'm tired.

The grass rustled with cool winter air when Michael's wife was lowered into her final resting place. George Michael clung to his father's hand as he said his goodbyes--he was only eleven, but already he had the eyes of an old soul.

The cancer came out of nowhere, as these things were prone to. Tracey didn't even have any family history of it, and she was relatively healthy as far as Michael knew, but it wasn't like the world was nice enough to warn you every time something bad was going to happen. Even if, in the grand scheme of things, you were supposed to be a good person (and Tracey was one of the best people Gob knew). In any case, good person or not, it didn't change the fact that Michael was now a single parent. A single parent to an eleven year old boy.

Gob remembered the phone call. How could he not? It happened less than a week ago, at three a.m. on a cold December morning. The details were burned into his brain: the fading scent of sex lingering in the air, the nameless woman snoring on his pillow, the calmness to Michael's voice, the early December chill creeping its way through Gob's bones, the fact that it was going to be Michael's birthday in less than twenty-four hours. It was one of the worst experiences of his life, hearing Michael crumble the way he did, but as he watched George Michael cling onto his father's hand, his cheeks pink in the cold, he told himself there had to be hope left in this world somewhere.

_Click._

* * *

A few weeks later, Michael told him: "She wanted to divorce me."

"I'm sorry--" Gob was blindsided for a moment, certain Michael and Tracey were supposed to be the happy couple in all of this. "--what?"

Michael didn't enjoy Gob staying around George Michael too often, claiming him to be a "bad influence", but the sitter cancelled and George Michael was too sad to be alone, so he called Gob to take over while he handled a few late night things at the company. The past few times he babysat for George Michael, they'd watched _Star Wars_ without fail, and Gob was getting so tired of it he caved and bought George Michael some Monopoly pieces. He thought he'd get him the rest of the board game another time, but that the pieces would at least be enough for some make believe.

It wasn't so bad, though, babysitting. George Michael was a good kid, if not like an awkward photocopy of Gob's baby brother as they grew up, but he liked the same ice cream flavours Gob did and didn't mind when Gob took him out to impress the ladies as a "good single dad". They did, of course, have a tacit understanding that Michael wasn't supposed to know about the ice cream and pick-up game, and it was working pretty well so far.

Anyways, Michael shrugged and tossed one last piece of dirty laundry into the hamper. Gob was asked to do the washing, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't. "She hated that I had to wait for her to get better." He paused. "That, you know, being married to... to, to a sick person was weighing me down.

"She said--we haven't even lived together in months. That this was how she could make it right for me."

Gob's mouth was hanging open, but he couldn't find the energy to snap it shut. Who would divorce _Michael_?

Glancing up at him, Michael smiled sadly (as he so often did, Gob noticed) and chuckled. "I know," he said, then let out a sigh heavier than Gob thought he could carry. "Believe me. I know."

Then he left for work and Gob was left with George Michael. It turned out that Monopoly was useless without the board, but Gob decided to pull out all the stops as they played _Return of the Jedi_ on the television: he held the lightsabre and all, made the _schwoom schwoom_ noises as he fought his nephew. George Michael used to be really good at this, Gob supposed, as he wasn't sure what 'good' constituted in nerd world, but he was sure that having George Michael all distracted and a little sniffly was not what a good fight constituted. By the end of it George Michael decided to curl against Gob's side and pass out a full half hour before bedtime, and he wasn't even all that tuckered out.

Instead of waking George Michael up for their promised ice cream and pick-up game, Gob deposited him into his bed, awkwardly stood by the side of it, and then flipped the light off. He took a moment, however, to stand in the doorway and watch him sleep peacefully; Gob never had any particular want to make babies, but if he did, he thought a kid like George Michael wouldn't be the end of the world.

_Click._

* * *

Rollo wouldn't stop bitching at him about the lack of magic practise, and if he weren't so fucking scary, Gob would definitely punch him in the kidney. The thing is, Rollo could probably take him (or at least match him punch for punch) and they had some Chinese New Year show coming up, so really, maybe they should try to smush in at least one more final practise before the actual gig.

If there was one thing Gob wanted as a kid, it wasn't to be a magician, but little Michael used to watch him with sparkling eyes every time he did it, and in the end it turned out that doing magic would help get him out of P.E., so it became a dream. What little Gob really wanted was a train set big enough to ride, but since that was more difficult, he was working on the whole being a magician thing, even though Michael didn't admire him any more and Gob had to demand to be taken seriously.

For the moment, he was the second half of a magic duo called _The Magicians Named Gob and Rollo_ , and they were good at explosions and dancing and handkerchief shit and sometimes doves. It wasn't glamorous (yet, but Gob couldn't find a right set of legs for that level up) and they didn't make much money (yet, but Gob had dreams of starting a Magician's Alliance, and he felt if he kissed his dad's ass enough he could get some cash from him), but either way, Gob loved getting up on stage and blowing people's minds, even if it meant his family thought he was an idiot. At least he got free drinks at the Gothic Castle. (Gob was a man with his priorities in order.)

They finalised their third song's choreography for the show (to _It's My Life_ by Bon Jovi, which was too slow for Gob's tastes, but Rollo was sick of _The Final Countdown_ ) when they took a break.

"So, your brother’s wife wanted to divorce him?" Rollo asked, dice flicking between his long fingers.

Gob sipped his water, nodding. "Yeah. Something about how dying made her a shitty wife."

"That's like some _E.R._ level shit," Rollo replied, flicking the dice out onto the stage.

"Worse is that my brother's pretending it didn't matter to him." Gob pressed the bottle of water against his lower lip and pondered, leaning against the speaker on the floor. "I mean, come on, his wife was dying and now she was talking about leaving him? Christ..." He trailed off for a moment, looking elsewhere with a sigh. "He gets this sad little smile sometimes, and it's like. Just _cry_ already, for Pete's sake. Fucking robot."

Rollo snorted, then moved to gather their dummy doves up, if only because they didn't want to kill any more doves practising before the actual show. It took a few moments before Gob returned to planet earth and watched Rollo do what he did best for a minute, and then he smiled and picked the last dove up to go back to him.

_Click._

* * *

"What is that? What are you doing with your hands?"

Gob jumped, startled out of his skin and nearly dropping his champagne flute. He was never that fond of champagne--it was too girly, really--but hey, it was free, and he was never the type to turn down a free drink, even if it came from his mother.

"God, mother, you scared me." Gob scowled and looked away from her.

Lucille straightened, reaffirming her spot next to Gob and brushing imaginary dust from the shoulders of his suit. It was the fourth year in a row that she was hosting this annual Valentine's party, and Gob was having a hard time remembering why he always went along with her. Didn't he move out of Balboa Towers, like, six years ago? And yet Gob still found himself returning to her stupid parties whenever she invited him. He could admit that sometimes his mother was amusing, but that was only when she wasn't being a total bitch to him.

"That horrible thing with your hands, what was that about?" she asked again, holding her own hands up in mockery.

Gob frowned deeper. "A picture."

"I'm sorry," Lucille began, crinkling her nose at him. "What was that?"

"I was taking... a picture, mum," Gob replied, irritated. He lifted his hands again as if holding a camera, framing a shot of George Michael in a sweater that matched Michael's while his father poured juice for him. The two of them were talking, Michael looking like he was scolding him a little, and George Michael looking panicked because his father was pouring him juice and he didn't know how to hold the plate of cake he had with just one hand.

Lucille looked at him blankly for a moment, then rolled her eyes before leaving, muttering, "Don't even have a camera with you--who dropped you on the head as a baby?"

Gob drank the last of his champagne, dropping it on a waiter's tray, then scowled as he crossed his arms in annoyance. He just wanted to make a memory, was that so bad?

"If mother was in a sweater like that, I'd want to make a memory of it, too," Buster piped up behind him, hands landing on Gob's shoulders and massaging him until Gob smacked him away in protest. "But only because it'd really go with her hair, I think, just like how it goes with George Michael's, while on Michael it's more..."

"Oh my God, why are you people trying to talk to me?" Gob groaned, exasperated. "Would you leave me alone, please?" He really needed another drink, and now that he thought about it he wanted some of that cake that George Michael was having, and he didn't want it to run out before he got to it.

An hour later, George Michael was passed out, his arms folded atop a table and his cheek resting on them. Michael rubbed a hand lightly up and down his back.

Gob, unsure why he was still at this party, stood across the room, and managed a small smile as he brought his hands up once more. This time, he made sure he was out of his mother’s eye-shot.

_Click._

* * *

"I was in a gay movement once," Tobias told him, apropos of nothing during a rare visit to Newport Beach. Maeby and Lindsay were at the banana stand with George Michael and his father, leaving Gob here to test out his brand new Segway while Tobias was... Tobias.

Gob coughed, turning slowly with wide eyes that likely betrayed him. Tobias was smiling, rocking on the balls of his feet as if announcing he was some gay protester to his brother-in-law was no big deal. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"Oh, it was _wonderful_ ," Tobias continued, smiling off into space. "They had all the best parties! I met a lot of beautiful women there, but, well, it turned out they were more into _other_ women--except Lindsay, who, I think, liked this man named Robert who had the _strongest_ arms..."

"Uh. Okay?" Gob turned away from him again, shaking his head. He'd always suspected Tobias of it, had done so for years now, but an actual gay experience was news to him.

Wait. Lindsay was with _lesbians_?

"Well, I'm just saying," Tobias commented just over Gob's shoulder, making him jump and squeak a little and nearly fall off his Segway. Tobias placed a hand on his back to steady him, chuckling. "Maybe you should take Michael to one, what with how worried you've been. They're really quite fun, and someone of his dry humour would be well appreciated. Maybe you can even do that today! I'll take George Michael off your hands, and--"

Gob stared at him for a long moment, confused as all fuck about why George Michael would be his responsibility. Then he remembered that Michael had been calling the sitter less and Gob more and. _Huh_. When was the last time Gob actually played ice cream and pick up?

"--it would be fabulous, just fabulous." Tobias clapped his hands together, smiling.

_Click._

* * *

George Michael's friends took him out for the weekend, so Michael was taking a break and trying to be happy that his son's friends were making him feel better as much as they could. Gob knew that Michael appreciated these efforts, even if he worried about his son all the time and not enough about himself. The world might be shitty, what with Tracey passing on, but at least Michael still had George Michael, and from the way Michael treated him and looked at him and talked about him, George Michael was probably the greatest thing he could ever have in his life.

Gob arrived at Michael's door at 7 p.m. with a case of beer and an action/thriller/semi-romance film, even though the romance was really just gratuitous D-cups with a muscled man. It was weird not having George Michael around, which he noticed every time Michael turned to where George Michael would often sit on the sofa as if he had to tell him to cover his eyes at the sex scenes, and then turned back at the television looking humbled.

George Michael's birthday was in a few weeks. Gob was continuing watching movies with him for reasons he couldn't quite figure out, but since Michael's decision to overwork meant he'd finished months' worth of it in a few weeks and also got himself some free time, sometimes Michael was initiated into the league of rebels as well (awful Darth Vader voice and lightsabre sound effects and all). In the back of his mind Gob thought that it was almost like they were a normal family, except for the fact that Gob was Michael's brother, and they both had dicks, and also Gob was pretty sure he was only thinking about Michael all the time because he was worried about Michael's well-being and nobody ever seemed to worry about the most functional Bluth in the family.

 _Whatever_ \--he shrugged when the thought came to mind and grinned through it. Families were what you made of them, not what you were born with, so even though Michael was born his brother, they could be co-parents if Michael wanted them to be. Not that that would be a thing, Gob supposed, since even though he'd been concerned about Michael raising George Michael alone, a few months in showed his baby brother doing just fine.

At least, until they started drinking.

It was four beers and thirty minutes into the film when Michael lost it. Gob had never seen him cry and he wasn't sure what to do with himself--hug him? Pat him on the back? Awkwardly sit at the other end of the couch and wait it out? _Yeah_ , he figured, he'd go with that one. Unfortunately, he survived only thirty seconds of silent weeping and watching Michael's back shake with the effort, curled up into himself, before he broke and slid back to pull Michael close to him.

"It'll be okay," Gob said, patting Michael awkwardly on the back. Of course, now wasn't the time to be thinking about how nice Michael smelled or, _Jesus_ , how Michael used to hold Gob like this when he cried because of their parents, and how Michael had always been there for him, and how Gob was being there for him now, and how much he loved his brother and how being there for him the past few months had given him a weird sense of purpose. Now was the time to be comforting Michael, he told himself, even though Michael lifted his head to look at him with puffy eyes and tears streaming down his face...

And Gob thought, _Oh, shit. I'm going to swoop on him._

So their lips met somewhere in the middle of all that, like some rift opened up in time and space and Gob was falling through it slowly. Part of him felt bad about taking advantage of his innocent brother in need, but Michael's lips were softer than he thought they would be (not that he imagined such things any more, no, of course not) and he wasn't exactly forcing himself onto said innocent brother. If anything, Michael was... kind of enthusiastically returning Gob's every kiss, every breath, every sigh. And then they pulled apart in tandem and Gob was frozen in the moment, torn between laughing with joy and screaming with terror.

What the hell did he just _do_?

Oh, _right_ , he just made out with his baby brother. That was it.

Michael smiled a bit hazily for a moment, sending Gob's heart into a leap... before it plunged into darkness at the same time Michael's expression fell.

"Shit," Michael breathed, bringing one hand up to rub at his face.

"Yeah," Gob agreed. He wasn't sure what he was agreeing to, but he really wanted to get back to that part where they were kissing.

Michael stood, moving away, clicking the television off. He refused to look at Gob's face, and for one fleeting moment, Gob thought: _holy crap, shit just got real_. But then Michael turned and it was like all the joy had been sucked out of the room--Gob had a fleeting moment of wondering where the fucking Dementor was when he realised, no, it was just Michael staring him like that with a look Gob was all too familiar with.

"We can't do this," Michael said, and Gob could practically do the speech along with him.

"You're my brother," Gob said flatly, looking down at his hands. "You can't make a living as a magician. You're my brother. How do I explain it to George Michael? You're my _brother_ , Gob, and I appreciate you being here for me, but we're brothers and we stopped doing this in high school for a reason, and..."

Looking back up, Gob saw the battle raging behind Michael's eyes for the first time in his entire life. There was want there, and need, and desire, and confusion, and sadness, and rage, and Gob always figured he'd only ever see that Molotov cocktail of emotion whenever he looked into the mirror, so it threw him off more than he wanted to admit.

But he grinned. "Hey, Mikey. It's okay. I get it."

He was at the door when Michael caught his arm.

"Listen, Gob," Michael said quietly. "I can't. I want to, but I can't. I have to think of George Michael. I have to be a mother and a father, and this is _wrong_ , and I just... I _can't_."

Gob laughed, pulling his arm away. "I know," he replied. "George Michael comes first--needs good role models or something, right? Look, let me know if you want me to have him next week for _Star Wars_. Or not, 'cause I get it either way."

Holding up his hands, Gob fought back the tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

_Click._

* * *

_It's almost Christmas!_ Gob wrote in scribbly, awkward lettering. _Hope you've been a cool kid. You write to Santa yet? Do you still do that? I'll be home in time for Gangy's Christmas party, so you better be there, kiddo. It's been way too long._

Gob finished the letter off and stuffed it in an envelope. It was the latest in a long string of pen pal letters to his favourite guy. Sometimes he asked about Michael, but he kept it as light and fun as possible. George Michael was going to be in middle school soon, too smart for his own good and not confident enough to make friends. Gob missed him everyday.

He sighed, leaning back in his especially comfy seat. They were cruising at about ten thousand or so metres above the ocean, coming back from a show in Denver. Following "the incident" (as Rollo named it), _The Magicians Named Gob and Rollo_ had a good show, received sponsors, and earned enough for Gob to start the Magicians' Alliance. Gob threw himself into magic, making new tricks with even better music, but creative differences with Rollo had them splitting as a duo a few months in. He said something about how Gob shouldn't reference _Star Wars_ so much in his tricks on his way out, and Gob had only countered with the Force being the most magical thing the world probably had to fucking offer.

Either way, his new manager, a pretty girl named Marta trying to make her big break in acting, curiously looked on as Gob sealed his latest letter to George Michael. The return letters had all been wonderful, pictures of George Michael and his father as they went through their year littered throughout. It'd been months since Gob last saw him... since he last saw his dad.

"You're becoming famous now, Gob," Marta said, head cocking slightly. Gob wasn't sure how to deal with her, because his instinct told him to flirt with her and fuck her, but Marta had two kids, and experience told him that wanting to fuck anyone with a kid would probably end in disaster. "You might have to be more careful about what you put in your letters."

Gob snorted, reclining in his chair. "I doubt the press'll be real interested in my twelve year old penpal," he replied. He could hear Marta breathe a quiet sigh of relief, then wondered what it was she thought of him if she thought Gob was writing dirty or inappropriate letters. Granted, Gob didn't have the best image, but still--he was an all right guy. Gob Bluth, upstanding citizen! (Never mind the fact that she'd seen him bring girls back to his hotel room, and...)

By the time they were back in Newport Beach, Gob had one more show, another woman in another hotel room, bad food, and a midnight run to get himself some booze. More than once he'd found himself missing _Star Wars_ night--even the lightsabres. He told George Michael this in one of his letters and even went out to buy a Stormtrooper sticker for the seal.

It was Christmas Eve when he actually found himself a spot of free time. Gob couldn't believe it'd been over a year since Tracey passed, and that it'd been nearly a year since he last spoke to Michael. Nine months and fourteen days, to be exact, but who was counting?

His mother's party was already in full swing when Gob got there, fancy wine in hand. Marta tagged along this year, both her sons excited about free food and unlimited juice and the chance to relax with their mother for a few days. They weren't even totally through the door when Buster found himself startled by Marta, and then enchanted by her, and Gob had to reach out to grab his shoulder and say: "Yeah, I'll forgive you for not saying hi to your brother first, but try not to scare my manager off with your weird, huh?"

Marta tilted her head, looking back. "What was that?"

"Oh!" Buster jumped, half hiding behind his hands as he glanced away. Gob released him, watching as Buster stumbled away, and Marta was left doing the same for a moment before her sons tugged her along. Shaking his head, he scanned the room for his own special people, and--

There they were, like no time had passed at all. Except George Michael was taller, his hair was cut shorter, and those god-awful dental equipment was finally out of his mouth. He was wearing a suit, as he tended to for Christmas things, but Gob could tell this one was new--he was growing up now, the nerd, and he needed new suits and. Gob's heart was in his throat, weird enough, and when he heard George Michael call "Uncle Gob!" before heading over to him and giving him a hug, he swore to God he was going to start crying somehow.

Gob laughed, though, and returned it. "It's good to see you too, kiddo." And he meant it, because as they pulled back he could see George Michael was doing much better than he was when Gob had last seen him. The chubby was back in his cheeks, in the same way that Michael's cheeks were when he was a kid, and...

A voice he'd been waiting for said, "Click."

So Gob turned, looking at Michael, who was smiling at him with hands raised in camera formation. Gob's stomach went tight as feelings came rushing back anew: the want, and the need, and the fear of the unknown. But all these were pushed away as Michael wrapped an arm around George Michael and used the other to pull Gob's head down into his shoulder, his lips brushing over his temple.

"Welcome home," he said, bringing his hand down to grasp Gob's free one. "It's good to see you again."

George Michael looked between them, confused for a moment, but then settled for taking Gob's other hand in the same way Michael's did. "Yeah, like dad said."

"Like dad said," Gob echoed, his fingers squeezing over the two hands he wanted to hold most. He'd never thought himself to be the clinging type, but found that it was more comforting than its vulnerability would ever lead anyone to believe.


End file.
